I Think He Passes The Test
by curlylinguist
Summary: John is invited back to Sherlock's for the first time, allegedly, to meet his family. Lots of snogging and an unexpected interruption ensues… Oodles of teenlock fluff. Developing Johnlock. Established Mystrade at the end. (Disclaimer: Obviously, I own nothing.)


**Rated T for mild language, lots of kissing and brief discussions of sex.**

**Notes: So. This is the first oneshot I have ever written. Any feedback would be SO welcome. I will love you forever. This is a thing I wrote when I was ill and homesick and lonely and stressed and procrastinating at uni and I just NEEDED some fluffy goodness to cheer me up. I have since gone back through and taken away the more cheesy elements ;) **

**ALSO. I swear to God that I have not abandoned my WIP. I know I haven't updated in ages, but real life is a bitch. And uni is so stressful. I've already written the next one and a half chapters though, and they will be up ASAP. Promise. **

**ANYHOO. Enjoy this one for now :') Feedback? Pwetty please? **

There was a light dusting of January snow covering the long, winding driveway. Two sets of wandering footprints slowly led up to the oak front door. The sounds of fumbling keys mixing with flustered, excited laughter echoed in the gentle quiet of the early evening. A sharp gasp, quickly muffled, slipped out as the door swung wide to reveal the vast, richly-decorated hallway. The taller, skinnier of the two rolled his eyes, trying to hide his nerves. The smaller wasn't fooled.

"I was just a bit surprised, Sherlock, that's all. No need to worry. I'm not going anywhere. If your posh arse hasn't scared me off yet, it'll certainly take more than this ridiculous house and meeting your family to send me running for the hills. They can't be any worse than you." A fond smile was dancing across his face, laughter lingering on in his soft blue eyes.

Shoes were toed off. Heavy school bags unceremoniously dumped by the door. Hats, scarves, gloves and coats thrown carelessly into a heap on the wide marble staircase, where the housekeeper would later pick them up with an affectionate shake of her head as she hung them over a radiator to dry.

Fingers were laced together. The soft slap of socked feet could be heard as the teenagers tore across the shiny wooden floor, careful not to slip, the dark curls of the leading boy bobbing with each step. The only fractionally smaller, blond boy was eagerly taking in the sight in front of him, eyes roving over his companion from head to toe, never once straying to look at his impressive surroundings. There was a happy, knowing smile plastered over Sherlock's face. He couldn't help it.

The race across the hall at an end, he paused slowly, suddenly unsure. He turned. A hesitant look was shared, green eyes locking onto blue…

It began with a soft, chaste kiss brushed shyly across ice-cold lips in the doorway to the lounge.

_John._

_Warm._

_Comfort._

_Perfection_.

Eyes fluttering closed. A hand held tightly in his. A small smile sprawled lazily across his face once more. Excitement was bubbling up in his chest. He leaned over to gently whisper into his boyfriend's ear with teasing, tickling breath:

"No one's at home, John. They won't be back for hours yet." There was an undercurrent of nervous anticipation thrumming through his low tone. He felt John shiver against him.

This was all so new.

He began to pull back, suddenly swamped by uncertainty. But John, _perfect _John could read the flicker of hesitation in his eyes with one glance. His soft, comforting smile, that fond look in his eyes once again, entirely for Sherlock, broke through his fear. He felt it shatter like glass around him. John – amazing, wonderful, _exquisite _John (Sherlock found there were never enough adjectives when it came to him. He would have to invent a new language. One just for the two of them.) - Johnwould never hurt him.

"Sherlock, we don't have to do anything, you know, not until you want to. Just this is fine. Us."

_I _do_ want to, though!_ Sherlock wanted to shout. He found he couldn't. There was a horrible lump rising up in his throat. It wouldn't go away, despite his numerous attempts to swallow around it. _THIS IS WHAT WE'RE SUPPOSED TO DO._ He almost missed what John said next.

"Besides, I certainly wouldn't be able to look your mum in the eye later on if we were to have sex now. Especially in her living room. You know, on her sofa." He winked. Sherlock's breath caught. He was joking. Of course he was.

_John. _

"I-I want- Christ, this is going to sound so clichéd…" He took a steadying breath, running a hand over his face, "But I want our first time to be special_. _Not some quick, heated fumble on your mum's sofa, with us both paranoid that your family might burst through the door at any moment." Then after a small pause, "why are you suddenly so eager, anyway? We're fine as we are."

_John._

Sherlock realised the lump in his throat was no longer there. He was looking at John's feet. His socks were odd.

"It's what everyone says we're supposed to do…" He didn't realise it had slipped out until it was too late. _Stupid! _He wished the floor would swallow him whole.

"Sherlock look at me." Two fingers were placed underneath his chin, gently pulling his head up, green eyes locking onto blue once more. "Who said that? And what exactly did they say? You can tell me, you know."

Sherlock didn't want to say_. This wasn't how it was supposed to be!_ But he couldn't tear his eyes away from John's. The fingers touching his chin moved round, burning a soft pathway across his skin to cradle the back of his head in his large hand. He felt grounded. He could still feel John's other hand loosely in his by their sides. Slowly, inch by inch, Sherlock moved his head forwards, angling it towards John's. He exhaled against his lips, nudging their noses together. John was still smiling softly up at him, pink tongue darting out to wet his lips. His eyes never left Sherlock's. It was as though John was peering deep into his soul. Sherlock felt his breath catch once again.

"We're still going to talk about this. When you want to, I mean." They were so close that as he spoke, Sherlock could feel the tiny tingling touches as John's mouth brushed past his own. "I won't let _anyone_ force you into anything you don't want to do. Right now though, I want to show you a rather lovely alternative." Finally their lips met, though it was still far too gentle for Sherlock's liking. _And, wait – what?! Why was John pulling away?_

Dimly, Sherlock felt a tug at his hand. He followed blindly, consumed by his blurring thoughts. _Rejection? Obvious. Inevitable. He'd never be happy with me too inexperienced too pathetic too young two years isn't a big age gap of course it wouldn't matter as much if we were older but fifteen and seventeen obviously it was doomed from the start sentiment stupid I could never be enough he wants someone older more mature who could satisfy his needs and his desires why did I ever say anything we've been together exactly three weeks four days twenty-one hours and thirty-seven minutes and already I've ruined it I could never possibly be good enough for Jo- _

There was a mouth against his own again. This time an entirely different sensation. It was pulling, sucking on his bottom lip, there was a tongue licking, gently but very deliberately, into his mouth. Sherlock found his lips parting of their own accord. _Automatic response, _said a voice quietly in the back of his head. And then John's tongue was in his mouth. Suddenly, his brain caught up with his body.

_Oh. _

_John._

And then he was reciprocating. Pushing back, up into John's mouth, giving as good as he got. He had always prided himself on being such a fast leaner. John's right hand had somehow found its way into Sherlock's hair and his fingertips were rubbing small circles at his scalp. His left was a gentle presence against his jaw, just touching, tenderly guiding their mouths together. This was a different kind of kissing to any in which they had previously engaged. It was more messy, more impulsive. Sherlock instinctively brought his own hands up to frame John's face, to pull him closer. The fuzzy, vague voice in the back of his head was wondering why John was suddenly so much taller than him. _Obvious. I'm sitting on the sofa. He's standing up. _

_Oh._

Without his consent Sherlock's arms were weaving around John's torso, trying to pull him further down at the same time as trying to pull himself up and properly lick his way into John's mouth. He needed to taste, to feel. Just - _more_. There was a bump as his poor coordination painfully brought their foreheads into contact. They pulled apart, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and pink. Both were breathing heavily. John was grinning down at him, awed and clearly very pleased with himself, trying to fight back his laughter. He gave up, collapsing against Sherlock, resting his head on a bony shoulder, the most high-pitched, un-John-like giggles Sherlock would have thought possible muffled into his skin. For a moment, Sherlock was stunned. Then, unable to help himself at the ridiculous mixture of _John, relief _and _those horrendous noises! _he joined in as well.

Somehow they ended up kissing again lazily between giggles, a gentle give and take, softly exploring one another. John knees were resting either side of Sherlock's hips, weight carefully distributed over his lap. Sherlock's thumb was absentmindedly rubbing small spirals into John's hip through the material of his jeans, as he slowly licked his way into the older teen's mouth, making him shudder against his chest. John disentangled his fingers from Sherlock unruly, mused curls, stroking down from his head to the small of his back. He pulled Sherlock towards him and flipped them both gently backwards to lie flat on the sofa without breaking the kiss. Chest to chest. Sherlock could feel firm muscle above him, strong thighs around him. He was wrapped up, cocooned entirely in John. He wanted nothing more than to stay there, lying bonelessly together forever. He wanted to forge a space for himself inside John's heart, climb inside and live there in and amongst his vital organs, watching them function to keep _his John_ alive and perfect and only his. Wanted to scrawl, to tattoo his name all over John's body so everyone would know he was Sherlock's and Sherlock's alone. No one else would ever dare to touch him again. Only him. _His perfect John._

John gently broke the kiss, leaning his forehead against Sherlock's, a joking echo of their earlier mishap. They breathed each other in, panting slightly.

"I hope that brain of yours has finally calmed down enough to realise that this is all we need. Just. Us. Doing what we want to do. This relationship is between the two of us. No one else. And as long as we stick to that one rule, we'll be happy. I promise to tell you if I'm not happy, and you have to promise to do the same." It was whispered softly, ardently into Sherlock's hair, the ghost of fingertips brushing his cheek. He felt the touch of searing lips pressed to his forehead.

And Sherlock loved him.

He rested his head on John's shoulder, pressing his agreement in happy little kisses to the base of his neck. The grand windows of his mind palace were fogging up. John turned his head blindly, eyes closed, seeking the touch of Sherlock's mouth against his own once more. Just as their lips met, however, there was a small cough from the doorway, poorly disguising a snort of laughter.

In an instant, John ripped himself away from his boyfriend, quickly scrambling to the opposite end of the sofa, putting as much space between himself and Sherlock as possible, cheeks flaming, chest heaving. Sherlock sat up slowly, turning angry, flashing eyes to glare at his brother with as much venom as he could muster.

"Go away, Mycroft!" he spat. "We're busy!"

"Oh, don't you worry, Kiddo, we can certainly see that..." sniggered that insufferable police sergeant, immerging from behind Mycroft to sling an arm loosely around his waist. Sherlock's swollen upper lip rose in disgust. Greg was trying (and miserably failing) to keep a straight face. Mycroft ignored them both, instead turning eyes, somehow both amused and menacing, towards John.

"You must be John Watson. Sherlock never stops talking about you. I'm delighted to finally put a face to the name." Mycroft flashed him a broad grin. It seemed very insincere to John, both teasing and threatening at the same time. John's blush deepened, unsure of how to respond and highly embarrassed to have been caught snogging Mycroft's baby brother in front of him. He was getting the impression that Mycroft could read everything about him, from his older age, to his sporting hobbies, to his somewhat disruptive family life, just as Sherlock had in their shared biology lesson at the beginning of the previous school year. Before he'd even had the chance to draw breath, however, Sherlock was already cutting in.

"Oh, please, Mycroft! Don't pretend you haven't been spying on us for the past three months at least and I know you have John's house bugged. Now, haven't you two got something better to do than intimidate my John?" Sherlock was the only one in the room not to notice his slip. "Didn't you hear?" He exclaimed, gritting his teeth hard and sneering, "Leave. Us. _Alone_!"

John suddenly found his voice again, rising to his feet to stare incredulously at Mycroft, "Hey, hang on a minute, you've bugged my house?!" He turned to Sherlock, "And you knew, but you didn't tell me? Jesus, I should've known." There was a small part of Sherlock that half expected John to run away from this madhouse screaming, but he simply began to laugh, a rich, genuine sound erupting deep from within as he collapsed back onto the sofa. Sherlock's heart swelled in his chest. He stared at John in amazement, as though he were the most fascinating creature on earth. John's warm, dancing eyes met his own as his laughter finally subsided. By this point, Sherlock had all but forgotten about the others in the room. As he crawled across the length of the sofa to curl his head into John's warm chest and breathe him in once more, all he could think of at that moment, all that mattered was John.

It's certainly a rare sight to behold: Mycroft Holmes rendered entirely speechless, and by his baby brother no less! Greg himself had only witnessed it once before, almost 2 years ago now, on that particularly memorable afternoon when he had finally worked up the courage to confess his feelings. Mycroft felt a slight pressure on his waist as he was gently guided from the room and heard the soft click echo around the vast hall as the door closed firmly behind them.

"Well," murmured Greg softly into Mycroft's warm, freckled skin, as he pressed a soft kiss to the younger man's shoulder; partly to muffle his oncoming laughter, but mostly just because he could, "I think he passes the test, don't you, My?"


End file.
